


The Last Dance, Forevermore

by chinchillasinunison



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Ballet, Cannibalism, Dark, Gen, Hell, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lebedínoye Ózero | Swan Lake References, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinchillasinunison/pseuds/chinchillasinunison
Summary: Mondo Owada finds himself in an ironic hell in which he is forced to perform perhaps the most mentally demanding and stereotypically feminine sport possible: ballet.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	The Last Dance, Forevermore

He stands in the blackness of the right wing, his gaze steadying on the folds of the red back curtain. He breathes, even if he shouldn't have to.

He has to go out there. He knows he does. The only thing waiting for him in the wings is the darkness and the growing sound of truck horns and growling engines and air that grows thick as molasses with each step he takes away from the stage.

He steps out. The stage lights pour over his outfit, which earns him mocking laughter and even wolf whistles from the audience. He winces. In the grand scheme of things, he knows he shouldn't be embarrassed about his wardrobe in this eternal pageant by now, but it was still a major wound to his pride. Considering where he is, that's likely the point.

He wears the typical costume of a ballerina: bodice, tutu, and slippers-- in all black. The bodice is embroidered with gold patterns that remind him of his old tokkō-fuku. He misses that coat now; its weight and coverage always provided him a bit of comfort. Dressed like this, arms and legs and nape out for all to see, he feels terribly exposed. His face, however, is quite the opposite. Beyond his usual eyeliner he also wears smoky, glittery eyeshadow and face jewels that trail down his cheeks like tears.

_ Ain't there somethin' in a ballet like this? It's the one with the swan, right? Like, there's some evil black swan that's the double of a good swan? _

It's a fitting role, he thinks. A creature dark and hateful and ugly that destroys the pure white good it runs parallel to. Fits like a glove.

He swallows.

He knows, intuitively, the moves he has to make, just like how he somehow knows what color eyeshadow he's wearing when there's no mirrors here. It's so it aches all the more when he fails.

This dance exploits everything he lacks: discipline, confidence, and any form of poise or tact. Every tremble, every jerky movement, it reminds him of how much of a disgrace he is. It forces him to remember that if he had even a sliver of self-control in the first place, he likely wouldn't be here.

He stumbles but catches himself, and the audience titters.

_ Don't look at them, don't look at them, _ he repeats in his head.

He already knows who's out there. They come for every performance. It's every person he's ever known: every Crazy Diamond, every classmate, anyone who he drove past on the street that he bothered to give a backward glance. Most of the faces he didn't have names attached to. But those in the front row did, and theirs burned his eyes most to view.

There are six seats in the front row. Not long ago, there used to be five, but it increased by one at some point over the first hundred shows. All of them are occupied by people who should be corpses, all of whom he feels some or all of the responsibility for that being so.

In the two farthest stage left sit Sayaka and Leon. He had no direct involvement in Sayaka's death, no way of knowing of the murder taking place behind soundproof walls, but as a man who takes umbrage with harming women his guilt complex kept him up the night after, saying that he should have somehow put a stop to it. In Leon's case, as Chihiro said after his trial, they all voted for him to die. The baseball star's blood is on his hands, too.

On the farthest seat stage right sits Junko. Again, he had no direct involvement. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if that bomb went off in his face on the first day, if they all had a dead body in front of them to show how dire the situation was, Enoshima would have thought twice before confronting Monokuma and ending up a pin cushion.

_ I had a talent fer not dyin' where it really counted... _

Sitting right beside her is the new face, one that arrived to the eternal dance in a memorable way. Throughout the performances, stage hazards were often placed about. A startling amount of these hazards were the cadavers of those in the front row, meant to trigger and ruin him. Kiyotaka Ishimaru made his debut as a piece of lifeless set dressing rather than a spectator. The implications of that on the world he once knew made that one an especially disastrous production. Ishimaru didn't survive, and it was partly his fault yet again.

Occupying the middle seats are, of course, Daiya and Chihiro. No need to harp on why  _ they _ were there…

_ Focus, focus… _

The hazard this time is despicable. He can barely see it against the gleam of the spotlights, but boy can he smell it.

_ It smells like I'm performin' inside a popcorn bag… _

Try as he might, he can't escape. The scent is constant. It taunts his nose every moment. He can't stop thinking about it.

_ Butter. Fuckin' butter. Of course they spread liquid butter on the goddamn floor! I  _ **_really_ ** _ need a reminder of  _ **_that_ ** _ shit! _

The rage consumes him yet again. He missteps. Slips. His body crashes to the floor.

"FUCK!" he swears automatically. The crowd explodes with sick glee. He sees them now. They point and jeer with grins so wide their faces should split. The thing that wears Daiya's skin slinks onto the stage, followed by the rest of the front row and others still.

It has his laugh-- that wheezy, huffing chuckle that reminds Mondo of a stalling engine. But those eyes are vacant and his teeth a touch too sharp. It's as if he was hollowed out and something  _ else _ inhabits his husk.

The shell of his brother straddles his prostrate form, pressing half of his face to the floor. The others of its kind gather tight around him. Not-Daiya draws its face in as close to his as possible.

"I dunno how ya manage it, but ya always find new ways to disappoint me..."

Its tongue drags across his buttery cheek. Mondo shutters. He squirms in the brief lull that follows in a flaccid attempt to escape. It's too late. Not-Daiya thrusts his head back down and clamps his teeth on Mondo's cheek. That opens the floodgates, and the rest of the crowd lunges. They all bite and rip and tear at his flesh like starving, wild dogs. Just as his paranoid brain always told him in life, at the first sign of weakness, in the very moment he doesn't act as they want him to, the people eat him alive.

Until…

There is…

Nothing left.

…

……..

…………...

He stands in the blackness of the right wing, his gaze steadying on the folds of the red back curtain. He breathes, even if he shouldn't have to...

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those fics where you get the idea early in the morning and you spend the rest of the day feverishly writing it all down like a crazy person before inspiration leaves you.


End file.
